Donna Leon - A Question of Belief

The three men had begun walking towards Do Mori, automatically turning right and left and right again. Outside, Penzo halted, as if he wanted to conclude this part of their conversation before they went inside, and said, ‘But his union saw that he was paid while he was out. This was damages for pain and suffering.’

‘I see,’ Brunetti said. Payment every week for pain and suffering. Far better than working. ‘What did you show him?’

‘A statement from two cooks who worked in a restaurant in Mira who said the man had worked with them for three of the four months he was claiming compensation.’

‘How’d you find out?’ Vianello asked impulsively, even though he knew this was something lawyers were always unwilling to divulge.

‘His wife,’ Penzo said with another loud laugh. ‘She was separated from him at the time — they’re divorced now — and he started being late with the child support. He used the accident as an excuse, but she knew him well enough to be suspicious, and so she had him followed when he went out to Mira. When she found out he was working there, she told me about it, and I went and spoke to the other cooks, got their statements.’

‘If I might ask, Avvocato,’ Brunetti began, ‘how long ago did this happen?’

‘Eight years,’ Penzo answered in a cool voice, and none of them, each well versed in the workings of the law, found this in any way unusual.

‘So he loses sixteen thousand Euros?’ Vianello asked.

‘He doesn’t lose anything, Ispettore,’ Penzo corrected him. ‘He simply doesn’t get the money he doesn’t deserve.’

‘And still has to pay his lawyer,’ Brunetti observed.

‘Yes, that’s a lovely touch,’ Penzo allowed himself to comment. That topic resolved, he waved them through the double doors that stood ajar and waited while Brunetti and Vianello went in ahead of him.

Some of the same people Brunetti had seen in the courtroom stood in front of the counter, wineglass in one hand, tramezzino in the other. A steady current of relatively cool air flowed from the open doors at both ends of the narrow bar: it was a relief to step inside, and not only because of the abundance of wonderful things on display in front of them. What kept Sergio and Bambola at the bar near the Questura from imitating what was on offer here? The tramezzini they made seemed, in contrast to these, pale representatives of the species. Looking at Vianello, Brunetti asked, ‘Why couldn’t the Questura be closer to here?’

‘Because then you’d eat tramezzini every day, and never go home for lunch,’ Vianello said and ordered a plate of artichoke hearts and bottoms, some fried olives, shrimp, and calamari, explaining, ‘It’s for all of us.’ He also asked for an artichoke and ham tramezzino and a shrimp and tomato; Penzo chose bresaola and ruccola, Speck and Gorgonzola, and Speck and mushroom; Brunetti practised moderation and asked for bresaola and artichoke and Speck and mushrooms.

They all chose Pinot Grigio, and large glasses of mineral water. They carried the glasses and plates to the small counter behind them, set them out, and handed round the sandwiches. When each had eaten his first tramezzino , Vianello raised his glass; the others joined him.

Penzo stuck a toothpick into one of the fried olives, bit off half of it, and asked, ‘What client is it you want to ask me about?’

Before Brunetti could answer, a man passing by patted Penzo on the back and said, ‘They feeding you or arresting you, Renato?’ but it was said, and taken, as a joke, and Penzo returned his attention to finishing his olive. He tossed the toothpick on to the plate and picked up his wine.

‘Zinka,’ Brunetti said. He was about to explain how it was that he came to be curious about the woman when the flash of pain that shot across Penzo’s face stopped him. The lawyer closed his eyes for an instant, then opened them again and took a sip of wine.

He set his glass down, picked up his second sandwich and turned to Brunetti. ‘Zinka?’ he inquired, voice light. ‘Why would you be interested in her?’

Brunetti drank some of his water and reached for his second sandwich, as casually as if he had not noticed Penzo’s reaction. ‘We’re not really interested in her but in something she said.’

‘Really? What?’ Penzo asked in a voice he had mastered and that sounded entirely calm. He raised the sandwich to his lips but set it back on the plate untasted.

Vianello glanced across at Brunetti and raised his eyebrows as he finished his glass of wine. ‘Anyone want another?’ he asked.

Brunetti nodded; Penzo said no.

Vianello went over to the bar. Brunetti put down his empty glass and said, ‘She mentioned an argument her employer had had with one of his neighbours.’

Penzo looked at his sandwich and, keeping his eyes lowered, asked politely, ‘Ah, did she?’

‘With Araldo Fontana,’ Brunetti said. By now, Penzo should have glanced up or looked at him, but he continued to study his sandwich, as though it, and not Brunetti, were speaking to him. ‘And she said that Signor Fontana also had an argument with the man on the top floor.’ Brunetti let some time pass and then said, ‘Since the ground floor’s empty, one could say that Signor Fontana argued with everyone in the building.’

Penzo did not reply. ‘Yet Signora Zinka said — and she seems like a very sensible person — ’ Brunetti added, ‘that Signor Fontana was a good man.’ Brunetti glanced over to the counter, where Vianello stood, back to them, sipping at a glass of white wine.

If the normal number of clients had been there, Penzo’s voice would have been drowned out, so softly did he say, ‘He was.’

‘I’m glad that’s true,’ Brunetti replied. ‘It makes his death worse. But it makes his life better.’

Penzo raised his head slowly and looked at Brunetti. ‘What did you say?’ he asked.

‘That his goodness must have made his life better,’ Brunetti repeated.

‘And his death worse?’ Penzo asked.

‘Yes,’ Brunetti said. ‘But that’s not what counts, is it? It’s the life that went before that’s important. And what people will remember.’

‘All people will remember,’ Penzo said in a voice that was no less fierce for being so soft, almost a whisper, ‘is that he was gay and was killed by some trick he brought back to his home for sex in the courtyard.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Brunetti said, unable to disguise his astonishment. ‘Where did you hear something like that?’

‘In the Tribunale, in the offices, in the corridors. That’s what people are saying. That he was a fag who liked dangerous sex and that he was killed by one of his anonymous tricks.’

‘That’s absurd,’ Brunetti said.

‘Of course it’s absurd,’ Penzo hissed. ‘But that doesn’t stop people from saying it, and it won’t stop them from believing it.’ There was rage in his voice but Penzo had returned his attention to his plate so Brunetti could not study his expression.

In other circumstances, hearing his tone, Brunetti would have been compelled to place a comforting hand on the arm of the speaker, but he stopped himself from making the gesture from some vague sense that it would be misunderstood. In a flash, Brunetti realized what that must mean and decided to risk any chance of trust on one word and said, ‘You must have loved him very much.’

Penzo raised his head and stared at Brunetti like a man who has been shot. His face was blank, scrubbed of all expression by Brunetti’s words. He tried to speak, and Brunetti read the history of years of denial that spurred him to look puzzled and ask whatever could Brunetti mean by saying such a thing: the habit of caution that had trained him to treat Fontana’s name as though it were any other name, the man just like any other colleague.